


can't stay a candle

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 14:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Then there are the candles. Marc doesn’t really remember packing them, but there they were, in the box next to the baking tray. Spread out across the table and the unpacked boxes, they at least give an illusion of ambiance to the apartment.It hadn’t occurred to him that it might also make it unintentionally romantic up until his new doorbell starts ringing.or,'I just moved in, and I don't know if this hot couple from upstairs is trying to adopt me or date me' AU





	can't stay a candle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the trope prompt of curtain fic for the Football Monthly challenge. 
> 
> Big thanks to Laura, for looking this over and being enthusiastically supportive of all my dumbass ideas.

 

 

 

There are rows and rows of boxes stacked in Marc’s new apartment, blocking out the light from the windows. It’s empty and desolate and unfamiliar, and Marc has to take a few minutes to sit in the hallway of the apartment building to tell himself what a stupid idea this move was, over and over again.

 

“Did you get locked out?” he hears someone say, right before a person sits next to him on the stairs.

 

Marc sighs, still slouched over. “No, I just moved in,” he says, then waves at the open apartment door, “it’s a little...overwhelming.”

 

“I get that,” the man says, and Marc finally turns to look at him. The first thing he notices is the leopard print. The second thing he notices is the smile.

 

“Everyone calls me Auba,” the man says, offering a hand, “I live upstairs.”

 

“I’m Marc,” Marc says, taken a little off-guard by the bright smile aimed in his direction. “I work at the Spanish embassy.”

 

“Oh, right, they have apartments in the building,” Auba says, and Marc nods awkwardly. The apartment was part of the reason he accepted his job. There’s no way he could have afforded to rent an apartment in such a nice neighborhood in Barcelona.

 

“Do you need any help moving in?” Auba asks, concerned. “That’s a lot of boxes, man. Do you even have a couch?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Marc says, blinking at him, “but you don’t have to-”

 

“You can’t live without a couch,” Auba says sternly, getting up, “I’ll just go call Marco, he’s my…” he hesitates for a moment, “...roommate. I’ll be right back.”

 

He jogs up the stairs, leaving Marc with his mouth partway open, and the coldness of the stairway seeping through his jeans.

 

Marco is thin and blonde, and just as nice as Auba is. He doesn’t seem to think it’s weird that they’re helping a total stranger unbox his life. In fact, he takes to it with great enthusiasm. He’s a graphic designer, he explains to Marc while rifling through a box labeled ‘kitchen’, and he’s passionate about colors and symmetry and which drawer Marc should use for his cutlery.

 

Auba owns an online fashion store that he runs from home, so he and Marco are used to having random boxes around. He also co-owns a bar, and is a recording artist, as Marco proudly explains while Auba acts almost shy.

 

They’re also not just roommates, which Marc figures out in about five minutes of being around them. He gets the sense that they’re trying to hide it, but no roommates he knows look at each other like they hung the moon, so.

 

Watching the easy way they move around each other makes Marc think about things he’s left behind, so he immerses himself in attaching the legs to the couch instead. Marco already hates the color.

 

“Mustard yellow, really?” he says, as Auba and Marc struggle to get the couch in an upright position. “The last time this was modern was in the seventies.”

 

“It’s comfortable!” Auba announces, throwing himself on it. Marco huffs, but sits next to him, and is forced to admit that, while unstylish, the couch really is comfortable. And it’s big, enough for three people to lie on it comfortably.

 

“I suppose that’s good,” Marc says, smiling, caught suddenly helplessly fond of these two people he’s just met, “I’ll have to sleep on it tonight, I don’t know if I’m ready to assemble the bed frame today.”

 

“Assemble?” Marco whispers and his eyes lit up with an unholy light as Auba lets out a high horrified sound. “Let me just get my power tools and I’ll be right on it.”

 

He’s out the door before Marc can explain to him that all the assembly tools are included in the package already.

 

“We’ll buy you a new bed frame, don’t worry,” Auba says, instantly apologetic. “He just goes a little bit overboard on the DIY.”

 

So by the end of the day, Marc has a fully assembled bed frame with an attached wooden side table and something that Marco calls a sunglasses rack.

 

However, he still doesn’t have a bed, because Marco has used all the laths to build the attached table and there’s nothing to hold the mattress up. Marc is so impressed by the additions that he doesn’t even think to be angry.

 

Auba orders them all take-out. He knows the number by heart.

 

“We never cook,” he explains to Marc, while Marco steals pieces of chicken out of his carton. “The last time we tried, we broke three bowls and I had to take Marco to the ER because he cut his hand.”

 

“You can’t just live on takeout!” Marc says, horrified, imagining what his mom would do to him if he ever uttered such a statement around her.

 

“Yes, we can,” Marco mumbles through a mouthful of noodles, while Auba nods along.

 

“Right,” Marc nods, determined, “come over tomorrow evening, I’ll make dinner.”

 

Auba and Marco blink at him.

 

“You can cook?” Marco asks, regarding Marc with an appraising look.

 

“Of course I can cook! I’m Spanish.”

 

“I was raised in France and I can’t cook,” Auba says, shrugging.

 

“He really can’t,” Marco says, then yells when Auba steps on his foot. “You said it first!”

 

“Do you even know where your pots are?” Auba asks and Marc grimaces.

 

“I’ll find them tomorrow morning,” he says, “and I have to go grocery shopping.”

 

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble for us, dude,” Marco says, while Auba nods along. They’re leaning into each other and they have matching sauce stains on their shirts. It’s kind of cute.

 

“It’s the least I can do to thank you for your help,” Marc says, firmly. And he means it.

 

They’ve only managed to unpack two of the boxes, but the presence of two other people has made the boxes, and the memories, a little less difficult to deal with.

 

*

 

The candles are maybe a bit of an overkill.

 

Though, granted, the table doesn’t really have a tablecloth as much as an old white sheet thrown over it. Marc’s been able to find most of the dishes, but none of the bowls, so the salad is served in one of his spare pots, but the rest of it looks almost acceptable.

 

And then the candles. He doesn’t really remember packing them but there they were, in the box next to the baking tray. Spread out across the table and the unpacked boxes, they at least give an illusion of ambiance to the apartment.

 

It hadn’t occurred to him that it might also make it unintentionally romantic up until his new doorbell starts ringing.

 

“Uh, wow,” Marco says, looking around the room with wide eyes, “this is amazing.”

 

“And it smells amazing too!” Auba adds, breathing in deeply. They aren’t dressed up, not that Auba is ever really dressed down, and they look soft and comfortable in this space that Marc is supposed to be making his own.

 

Marc makes up an excuse to escape to the kitchen, where he takes a couple of deep breaths and splashes his face with some water, before grabbing the soup.

 

 

*

 

 

Somehow, seemingly without Marc consciously realizing, him cooking dinner becomes a weekly, and then a daily, thing.

 

By evening, without fail, Auba and Marco migrate to Marc’s apartment, with a bottle of wine, or a couple of pieces of cake, with stories from their day that have Marc cracking up while he cooks.

 

Eventually, Marco graduates to chopping vegetables, though it takes him ages because all the pieces of red pepper must be perfectly symmetrical.

 

Auba isn’t allowed near any cooking utensils. The results are, without fail, disastrous.

 

Auba gets to set the table though. And he always lights up the candles. Marc tries hard not to think about that too deeply.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s not like Auba and Marco come over just for Marc’s cooking.

 

With Marco’s skills and a few side trips to Ikea, Marc’s shelves and other furniture go up. It’s all got some weird wacky improvements to it, but Marc likes the way Marco lights up every time he thanks him for placing yet another cup holder at the top of the bookshelf.

 

Auba keeps telling him not to encourage him, but he looks at Marco with such naked fondness even when he scolds him, that Marc finds himself blushing and looking at his feet.

 

And Auba keeps bringing Marc clothing. Pieces that Marc is sure won’t fit or suit him end up being both. Auba claims he got them as extras at his modeling gigs, and he seems to get upset every time Marc offers to pay him back.

 

So Marc lets himself be dressed in sleek white button-ups, and suit jackets with subtle but eye catching embroidery, and occasionally he catches Auba’s look in the mirror and can’t read the soft expression on his face.

 

*

 

Just before autumn settles fully into winter, Auba gives Marc a coat.

 

Auba pulls Marc into his and Marco’s bedroom and makes him try it on, despite Marc’s protests.

 

It’s a thick woolen peacoat, soft and colored deep navy. It’s obviously a special piece, expensive, maybe even custom made for someone.

 

It fits Marc perfectly. The sleeves cut at his wrists and it’s warm, like getting a big hug.

 

“There you go,” Auba says, softly, smoothing down Marc’s lapels, “all ready for winter.”

 

“I can’t accept this,” Marc tells him, “it’s too much.”

 

“Yes, you can,” Marco says behind them and Marc jumps a little. He’s forgotten Marco was even there.

 

Marco comes up behind them, setting his chin on Marc’s shoulder.

 

Marc feels caught, between Marco’s body and Auba’s hands on his front, too warm, from the coat and from the sight of the three of them in the full-length mirror.

 

“Okay,” he says, and hates himself for thinking ‘maybe’.

 

*

 

There’s a picture on Marc’s bookshelf that Auba and Marco are always very interested in. He always dodges their questions, until one evening, when he’s drunk on the Spanish wine that Geri sent over and Marco asks him about the jersey Marc is wearing in the picture.

 

“Barcelona Cadete B,” Marc says, quietly, takes a deep sip of his wine. He chokes on it a little and it brings tears to his eyes.

 

“No way, dude! You were a part of Barcelona’s youth teams?” Auba asks, with a disturbing amount of focus. Marc knows he’s a Real Madrid fan.

 

“Until I was 16,” Marc confirms, shrugging. It’d been such a big part of his life until then, football had been such a big part of it. And then it wasn’t.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Wasn’t good enough,” Marc says, shortly.

 

There’s a moment’s pause, and Marc chews on his lips, hoping that the line of questioning won’t continue.

 

“Who’s that in the picture with you?” Auba asks, stretched out from his perch on the couch, looking at the photo. Marc glances at it briefly.

 

“My twin brother, Eric,” he says, then hesitates, mouth suddenly dry, “and my ex, Sergi.”

 

“Oh,” Marco says, then, “wait, twin brother? There’s two of you?”

 

The face he makes, combined with his affronted tone, is enough to make Marc throw his head back and laugh.

 

*

 

Auba goes away for a few days on a business trip to Italy. He has a few contacts in Milano and a few pieces he needs to check on personally. He explains this all to Marc, while Marco helps him fold things to put in his suitcase.

 

It takes the combined force of both Marco and Marc to convince him that he doesn’t need two suitcases for a three-day trip, and he’s still a little huffy about it.

 

Auba kisses Marco on the mouth before he goes, and Marc has to swallow a gasp because they never really kiss in front of him. They hug close and Auba whispers something into Marco’s neck, and Marc feels like he’s witnessing something incredibly intimate but he can’t find it in himself to really look away.

 

Then it’s Marc’s turn for a warm hug.

 

“Take care of Marco for me?” Auba whispers against his neck, and Marc nods. He feels Auba smile and then the barest touch of lips to his cheek, so brief Marc wonders if he hasn’t imagined it.

 

 

*

 

 

The first day of Auba’s absence, Marco comes over for dinner, but he’s visibly subdued. Marc does his best to cheer him up but the truth is, he’s feeling a little down himself.

 

It feels weird without Auba’s presence. Like the world is just a little bit less bright.

 

Marco is clingier than usual. He spends most of the movie they’re watching with his face tucked into Marc’s neck, and his breathing is slow and even by the time the movie is over.

 

Marc maneuvers him carefully onto his side and covers him with a blanket before heading to bed.

 

He’s less surprised than he should be when he wakes up to find Marco passed out on top of the covers on the other side of his bed.

 

 

*

 

 

When it happens, it’s almost laughingly simple.

 

Someone gently calls Marc’s name and he opens his eyes. The first thing he registers is how warm he is. He’s squashed between Auba and Marco on the couch, the TV playing infomercials. It’s morning, barely, judging by the soft light filling the living room.

 

Someone brushes his hair out of his eyes. He looks up and it’s Auba, watching him with fondness that Marc has no idea what to do with. Marc’s had his face smushed into Auba’s T-shirt. It looks like he drooled on it a little.

 

“Good morning,” Auba says, brushes his knuckles across Marc’s cheek, and follows it with his lips, touches them gently to Marc’s mouth.

 

Marco grumbles from where he’s got his face tucked against the nape of Marc’s neck. Marc freezes, barely breathing.

 

“Are you doing something weird?” Marco mumbles. “Marc’s heartbeat just went haywire.”

 

“I’m kissing him,” Auba says, calmer than the situation warrants in Marc’s opinion.

 

“What? No fair, I wanted to kiss him first!” Marco says.

 

They start bickering and Marc listens with growing confusion.

 

“Guys? What’s going on?” he cuts in eventually, and they fall silent.

 

“I told you we should have talked to him first!” Marco says.

 

“So why didn’t you? You’re the one with the books on polyamorous relationships,” Auba says, gently lays his hand on Marc’s hip to steady him while he frowns at Marco over Marc’s head.

 

“Polyamorous relationships?” Marc repeats softly, confused. Auba’s hand tightens a little, and Marco’s tone gentles.

 

“We could be like a triad…” Marco starts, and Marc listens, grounded by Auba’s hands and lulled by Marco’s words as he explains that all the things Marc has been feeling, all the things he’s been wanting, aren’t wrong at all.

 

“...and since we’ve sort of been dating you anyway, we were hoping that you’d want to make it into something more official,” Marco says, and Marc thinks about the candles, and abruptly starts giggling. Auba sees it, and automatically starts grinning too.

 

“What?” Marco asks, sounding offended and Marc turns around to catch his lips in a kiss to soothe him, which makes Auba choke on his laughter.

 

“I’d like that,” Marc says, softly, goes a little cross eyed watching as a smile spreads across Marco’s lips.

 

Auba presses a kiss to Marc’s neck and makes a soft noise. Marc tilts his head so Auba can kiss Marco over him, watching their mouths touch with something like wonder, because he can watch now. Some of it is for him too.

 

*

 

Auba and Marco eventually fall back to sleep, but Marc is awake for a little while longer, sandwiched between their warmth, watching the shadows in his apartment as the sunlight turns to bright yellow.

 

He wonders when this apartment, in this foreign city, became his home. Was it when he unpacked all his boxes? Or maybe it was when Auba sat next to him on the stairs, or when Marco built him a sunglasses rack.

 

In any version of it, building a home has something to do with the two people next to him right now. And he can’t imagine it any other way.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](neyvenger.tumblr.com)


End file.
